


Harbinger of Hell

by Inkly_Noted



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Demons, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Dark Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Demon Harry, Demon Harry Potter, Demon Summoning, Demonic Possession, Demons, Demons Are Assholes, Evil Harry Potter, Fire Magic, Gen, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Magic, Scary Harry Potter, Summoning, Summoning Circles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkly_Noted/pseuds/Inkly_Noted
Summary: As he crept into the house, making sure not to hit any of the creaky spots, he steeled his resolve. As his face set into a grim determination, he climbed the stairs up to his tiny room. The walls of the house (never a home) haunted him with images of his past torment and pain. It did nothing but urge him to do it.He, Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was about to summon a demon.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	Harbinger of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun Halloween thing.

The night brought a chill that was unordinary for July, a biting wind as company. Many were outside on their properties, enjoying the fading day. When the faint howling was heard and the shivers felt, many retreated into their home. After all, it was still rather early in the month; a cool night was nothing too strange. 

Stray leaves carried through streets, brushing up against the signs.

Privet Drive.

A lovely suburban neighborhood, if you asked any who lived there. Respectable families and their well kept homes, it was a little piece of mundane paradise. The model place to live.

Though, despite these qualities, rumors popped up every once in a while. Gossiping was part of life here, but some stories occurred often. Like poor Sheryl, who's husband was often said to cheat on her. Or There was one of a ruffian young man, who caused all sorts of disturbances. That he resided in Number 4, with the poor Dursley family that took him in out of the kindness in their hearts. He was a messy young boy, with raggedy clothes that never fit, a windswept mess of black hair, circle lenses that covered evil green eyes, and a jagged lighting bolt scar that stretched from his forehead to his right cheek; cutting through his eyebrow and over his eyelid. 

He was always causing mischief, even when he was a boy. Odd, unnatural things happened around him, like when old Mrs Marsh's hair was dyed blue after punishing the kid. A while back he apparently climbed the school roof, and whenever he was angered things seemed to shake. Though four years ago he was presumably shipped off to Stone Wall, but even now vandalism is common near the park. It was probably the Potter boy, they always said.

He was a little freak.

A devil.

The playground was quiet, nothing but the rustling of maple trees, the occasional car, and crow caws permeated the silence. The sky was graying, deep clouds glided across the sky; an omen for a heavy summer storm. A sudden gust of piercing wind caused the rusted merry go round to creak, the chipped orange paint flaking off.

Weeds had over grown, the muggy weather encouraging them to spread. The smell of ozone was potent, electrifying the air.

The chains of an old swing rattled as scuffy sneakers pushed softly against the dirt, causing a high groaning sound. Callused, bony fingers gripped the chain, knuckles white and tensed.

It was the full moon, tonight.

The swaying stopped, a shuddering breath escaped.

Tonight. Harry Potter was still as yet another breeze brushed against him, touslling his fringe. The hair ruffled, baring his famous lightning scar. While it never seemed to have healed right, it currently looked scabbed and inflamed; as though it had just opened.

Viridian eyes looked through glasses towards the sky, where a bright, white moon was peering over the horizon.

"Tonight." Looking passed his faded grey sleeve, Harry glanced at his scratched wrist watch.

9:57, soon.

He sat there for a few more seconds, debating if it was worth the risk. He inhaled, and exhaled.

Harry stood wearily, unclasping his numbed digits from the cold chains. Rubbing his hands, he put them in his pockets. As he slowly trudged towards number four, he played with the small pebble in his pocket. A stone from his forest fort, in the woods near the playground.

A stone. A something from an innocent safe space.

The last component of the list, the list of ingredients for one of the blackest rituals in existence.

A Moonstone, a Sunstone. Balance.  
Unicorn hair, forcibly taken. Unneeded Malice.  
A something from a dangerous evil place.  
And a something from an innocent safe space.

The catalysts, they were to each sit on a pentagram spoke. The pentagram had been drawn in his blood, at exactly midday. It should receive indirect sunlight, than direct moonlight till the actual ritual at midnight. 

The moonstone must sit through seven nights of moon light, and the Sunstone seven days of sunlight.

To charge the circle, seven crys-

"Hello, young man." The scrape of dirt beneath his feet halted abruptly, his left foot frozen in the air for a few seconds. He turned towards the gentle voice, noticing he was in front in the local church's parking lot.

It was a middle aged priest, he looked rather generic. His white hair was in a crew cut, his pale face was kindly smiling at him, and he was in his black uniform. Behind him, Harry could see volunteers packing away signs, tents and tables.

"What would you be doing out here so late? 'Tis nearly ten!"

Father Thomas looked over the rather ragged young teen, noticing the odd lifelessness about him. The dark hoodie and trousers he wore didn't bulge in anyway, so he wasn't a theif. He was clean enough to not be homeless, but he didn't look wealthy. He seemed normal, even innocent, enough.

But when he froze so suddenly, and turned to Thomas, he couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy.

He wasn't the tallest person he'd encountered, just shy of six feet. He wasn't rippling with muscles in the slightest, and his pale skin seemed to have been deprived of sunlight for a while. So when he met the boy's harlequin green eyes, seemingly glowing underneath his shadowy mop of hair, Thomas didn't know why it felt like the air was sucked from his lungs.

"Oh, just walking. I've been away at school for awhile, so I decided to take a walk and reacquaint myself with Surrey. It seems time has escaped me..." He spoke slowly in a local accent, turning his head to face forward again. His lips curved into a small smile, but it didn't seem friendly. A biting gust of air blew at that moment, revealing the rest of his rigid scar.

"Dear heavens, my boy! Where did you get such an injury? Come inside, I'll help you clean it up." Thomas reached out for his shoulder, intent on guiding him into the church. 

But Harry tensed, immediately swerving away from the grip. If he so much as touched something holy, nevermind being gripped by a priest and led into a church, the entire ritual would be ruined if he attempted it before the new full moon.

That was not an option.

"Ah, no need to worry about it. It's already healing and I wouldn't want to intrude, I'll be expected home soon anyway. Have a good night, father." Without waiting for a reply, Harry hastily strode away.

Father Thomas stared after the young man, bewildered at how fast he with drawed. But he shook his head, there were other things to focus on, like getting the day camp packed away. 

As he got back to helping, he couldn't dismiss the boy out of his head. It was too surreal, and he couldn't shake the odd sensation of deja vu. Curiosity won, and he turned to sister Layla.

"Sister, have you ever seen a young boy with dark hair, circle glasses, and green eyes around here before?"

He saw her acknowledge him, looking to be thinking lightly.

"No father, I can't say... oh, excuse me father, but are you talking about the Potter boy?" He saw that Layla looked uncomfortable talking about this, and he only felt his inquiries grow.

"Potter boy?"

Harry stumbled a little after catching his shoe on a crack in the sidewalk, quickly righting himself and continuing his treck to number four. 

He checked his wrist watch again.

10:09

He swore, picking up his pace. While a little less than two hours may seem like plenty of time, for this delicate project it rushed the final preparations. 

It took another two minutes for Harry to see the familiar number four, and he immediately veered from his straight path to the driveway with the same Ford that uncle Vernon has had for years. The sun had all but disappeared now, leaving a sinister red glow over the horizon. Without the sun, the night seemed even colder. The wind screamed, giving him goose flesh that felt bone deep. Dust picked up, tinging his eyes as he jogged up the driveway. The air smelled almost metallic now, and it rang heavy on his tongue.

The shadows loomed silently, the neighborhood and sky more ominous than ever before. It seemed like the world itself knew what he was about to do, and was doing its best to dissuade him. But he couldn't turn back, he'd pondered this for days; weeks. His mind was made up.

As he crept into the house, making sure not to hit any of the creaky spots, he steeled his resolve. As his face set into a grim determination, he climbed the stairs up to his tiny room. The walls of the house (never a home) haunted him with images of his past torment and pain. It did nothing but urge him to do it.

He, Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was about to summon a demon.

He reached the top of the stairwell and purposely walked to his room. As he opened the door, he allowed a tiny smile to creep up his lips.

It was time.

The next hour was spent hurriedly organizing the ingredients, painstakingly making sure everything was perfect. If it wasn't, if even the slightest detail was incorrect, it could all go so wrong in so many ways. He was already at a disadvantage at his lack of teacher, having to rely solely on the book's information. While it was extensive, there is simply a downgrade when learning something like this without an instructor. However, his near obsessive heavy research, dedication, and focus should be enough to even it out.

He had made a beeline straight for the loose floorboard under his bed, prying it open with nimble hands. He carefully yet firmly pulled out the bag of blood crystals, all seven created from being soaked in his blood. These were actually the one of the first components he completed, the book advised to do these first as they aged like wine and became more potent the longer they sat. The more effective they were, the better they'd charge the circle. Next, he pulled the box of moon and sunstones out. They had to stay in close proximity in their one day rest period, as they reflected the collected light to each other and synchronized. They kept the ritual balanced, preventing it from exploding. He then pulled out the unicorn hair, this was the easiest to find, he just went to Knockturn and asked a withered old man at an apothecary. He was assured this unicorn was plucked bare, he could feel the depression wafting from it. All the more likely to catch the attention of a malicious being, one that would become his familiar.

Harry hesitated at the fifth, but grabbed it anyway. It was a fang, big and pearly white. Offsettingly not ivory, the basilisk fang was grudgingly collected from the Chamber, one of the most evil places he knew. He had a sneaking suspicion that Riddle had used it for some black rituals himself, but in this case it would only work in his favor. Harry hoped that it would attract some type of snake, as this ritual was used for summoning lower class demons which usually couldn't speak. So despite his prejudice against serpents, he would like something he could communicate with. 

Finally, Harry took out the grimoire from which he had been educated, along with his wand, five candles, as well as a ritual knife, and replaced the board. 

He sat up and did a final check over the meticulously scribed magic circle, cross-referencing to the one on his page. After that, it was time to place the white candles between the ends of the five spokes. He positioned them in the small circles that had been drawn in the widest layer of runes, making sure they were centered.

Harry then went and started setting the main five items on the upside down pentagram spokes, first the unicorn hair on the bottom, then the Sunstone and Moonstone on the horizontal ones, the basilisk fang on the top right, and finally he took the smooth little pebble out of his pocket and put it on the top left.

His hands had started shaking, from excitement or trepidation he wasn't sure. Harry looked around his unusually bare room, finding the rest of his things, furniture and old toys he'd found interesting on his bed. He'd had to move some things in order to make space for the circle, as it had to be exactly a meter in diameter. There were a few things still littered about, like the bookshelf and wardrobe which were too heavy to stack on the bed. Harry had opted to move the small desk and chair, which cleared an ample space. 

His attention went to the dented walls and ceiling, which each had a simple trapping rune which only the writer could dispell. A precaution in case the demon killed him and tried to escape. They created a barrier around the room, sealing all exits. 

After gazing despondently for awhile in an attempt to calm his anxiety, he checked his watch again.

11:34.

Okay, time to get back to work.

This step was placing all seven of his blood crystals in their circles that branched off around the main circle, which he did while staring at them almost reverently. The soft, red wine glow placated him a little, and allowed him to plant them steadily.

Once that was finished, he stood and looked at his handy work. As awful as what he was about to summon, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of morbid pride. This was his blood, sweat and tears, he worked for this.

Having finished preparing the physical circle, he stepped over to where he had left the book and picked it up. He skimmed over the too-familiar pages, finding 67, where the incantation was written.

When he had first seen it, Harry had been confused and a little panicked. It was three paragraphs of a runic language, one he couldn't seem to find a trace of in his rune guide. He had read further though, too stubborn to give up. It soon became apparent that this was Helaek, the language of hell. The dusty text had included a translated alphabet, enough for him to learn how to pronounce the rather horrific tongue. It had been a journey, he reminisced. Some of these sounds had looked impossible for a human to replicate, but he did it anyway.

After a while it became fun, something about speaking it felt… soothing. It rang something deep within him, tempting him, almost. 

Harry read through the writing, making sure to memorize it for when he started chanting.

He did this until he saw his watch strike 11:59.

It was time.

The moonlight was powerful, he could see his room in detail. The circle sat there, evermore enticing. It called to be used, to be activated; like a mysterious door to which you were holding the key for.

With no time to waste, Harry snaped his fingers. A tint flame flickered between his fingers, a bit of wandless magic he'd been working on. He lit each candle and extinguished the little fire, reaching for the ritual knife.

Well, it was more of a dagger, the weapon was intricate, rather long and a bit jagged. Its name was Raska's fang, and would be more than adequate for combat. It could only be used for a ritual once, after that it lost its "edge", so to say, for the fine art.

Harry raised his hands over the pentagram, dagger in his right hand and over his left. He took a final deep breath.

He sliced his palm.

The blood welled up and trickled out of the wound, he turned his hand so it splattered in the center. Beep. Beep.

12:00 am.

He chanted.

There isn't a way to use the English alphabet to write Helaek, not truely. There are too many growls, screeches, and chilling noises in the language, to write the animalistic sounds with human text.

Harry prowled around the circumference, invoking the black magic and saturating his surroundings in darkness. His eyes glowed as he stared down the circle, and they looked alone in the darkness. It was as if he were the predator, and the demon would be his prey. Harry licked his lips in anticipation, feeling the calm euphoria that dark magic invoked.

The unholy speech crescendoed, and the circle started sparking. The magic was green, Avada Kedavera green, and the putrid stench of Sulphur filled the air. The pentagram glowed brighter than before, the foreboding light only making Harry grin in anticipation.

A deafening crack and a burst of energy surged from the circle as Harry finished the first part of the chant, leaving an open gateway from Britain to hell for the first time in around five hundred years.

The art had been mostly eradicated in the United Kingdom, and the grimoire had been a pain to even find, muchless buy. So, because of that, there should be enough selection for him to get a snake demon. 

Harry had modified the calling part of the chant to be more specific, so his chances were rather high. Unwilling to let the energy in the crystals be wasted anymore, he started the second piece.

Harry admired the portal as a spoke, it was like a black hole. The edges were lined with the green light, and inside he could faintly see the fiery depths. It was all going so smoothly.

Until it wasn't.

Harry'd felt relatively safe, alone even, until now. It creeped up on him, this terrible presence. He suddenly felt as though his every move was being watched, but he continued. Fear would not stop him.

It wasn't obvious at first, it was a subtle change. But soon, the gate had started acting funny. Black... stuff started sifting from the pit, but it had caught on the shield that kept demons inside.

Harry ignored it and kept chanting, it was most likely a demon scouting him out; to see if he was worth contracting with. Then instead of its slow floating, the mist started making jerky movements. It lashed out against its cage, trying to break the protective film. It was enough to make him pause, and as he started again he retrieved the book and began searching for answers.

Pop.

Harry froze, eyes darting to where the shield had been broken. The black gunk began spewing out of the ripped field, spreading around the room. The gate was going ballistic, doing it's best to rip outside the boundaries. 

Even more of the stuff came out, before it stopped and formed a viscous cloud of taint. From where he stood, Harry absently noticed that his only hope of banishing the gas had began sealing up. The portal left only the blackened blood in its wake, the items that were inside stolen by the Demon World.

Lovely.

The cloud had formed around him, cutting off any chance of his escape. The sulphuric smell was was nearly visible, the air smoldering. Beads of sweat ran down his feverish skin, hands and feet ice cold. Even the grave yard incident, which wasn't even a month ago, had not felt as agonizingly despairing as this. 

As it started reaching towards him, constricting like a boa, Harry realized with absolute certainty; he fucked up.

It wisped along him, caressing his skin oh so tantalizingly through his worn clothing. Harry could feel the inate wrongness that wafted from the substance, making his breathing that much more ragged. He shuddered when it touched his pallored face, he could sense it peering into his damaged soul. 

And whatever it saw, finalized its decision.

Faster than Harry could ever hope to process, the gunk lunged. It engulfed his scrambling body and forced itself onto him, attaching itself to every surface it could. He opened his mouth in an attempt to scream, but the mist just forced itself down his throat. He choked, hands clawing at his neck in a desperate attempt to clear his airway.

Harry's vision was fading, black spots appearing as his wriggling weakened. In a final struggle, he tried to cast his fire magic in his hand. However it was snuffed out, and Harry's eyes rolled up into his head as he lost consciousness.

"Oh yes, you will do just perfectly." 

Black, it was all black.

Dark, deep pitch darkness, neverending oblivion. Whispers, wicked and wild echoed; never there, always out of reach. The light was being suffocated, choked out by the shadows. It was almost gone, as was inevitable. It was destiny for light to fade, a brilliant flash to last only a second in a long and torturous day.

How cruel, he thought. To have something so wonderful and amazing, only for it to be but a fleeting after image; a memory.

There was only a tiny pearl left, he saw. He felt. But he couldn't feel, that's how he knew. It was leaving, it was dying. Death, it was nigh.

And yet, he wasn't going to die. His body would function, he would survive. But live? Could you live without yourself, your emotions? All of who you were, could you go on without it?

He didn't know.

.

.

.

... He didn't want to.

It was desperation he knew, despite feeling it through apathy. It was like feeling through glass, he knew it was there, but he could sense only a wisp of it. How awful, how horrid, he thought.

And yet still, with what light he had left; he grasped it. Held it tight, held it close. It was weak, so, so weak. It was almost pathetic, useless, but he held it despite. It shivered, it thanked, and it continued to glow.

The dark, the disgusting, terrible, unnatural dark, searched. It twisted, taunted, gaslit, but he held true.

The light was his. 

So he snarled, he raged and raved right back. He felt the light's sadness, it's disappointment; and he started crying. As he raged he also wept, he wept for his lost feelings, emotions, humanity. 

He screamed. 

The light soothed him. It was still here, it said. It's alright, it whispered.

But it wasn't.

It wasn't right.

And all the same, he calmed, curled himself around the light. The badgrossevildarkdarkdark had stopped, it had assumed itself victorious. The arrogance wafted from it, unknowing of the sweet little light that was hidden from it.

It caressed him, whispering its toxic, poisonous, sugary words.

But he knew.

Harry knew and he held the little light all the tighter.


End file.
